


For the Heart is an Organ of Fire

by thymogenic



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, The English Patient - Michael Ondaatje
Genre: Christmas Party, Extramarital Affairs, Hand Jobs, Injury Recovery, M/M, Quiet Sex, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 21:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13556058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thymogenic/pseuds/thymogenic
Summary: Hannibal x The English Patient:One of the many bittersweet recollections Count Hannibal Lecter has of Will as he achingly, slowly, marches towards death's door.





	For the Heart is an Organ of Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Llewcie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/gifts).



> Beta'd by the incredible Llew!

THE MONASTERY OF SANT’ANA, TUSCANY, ITALY - LATE 1944

 

All it takes is the rustle of a Christmas cracker sheath. The recitation of words written in his own handwriting. That’s all it takes, to send him back. His sweet, Québécois nurse’s benevolent voice coaxing the memory of that sweltering, torrid day out, like some wild thing from under the fronds of time.

“December twenty-second - Betrayals in war are childlike compared with our betrayals during peace. New lovers are nervous and tender, but smash everything - for the heart is an organ of fire… for the heart is an organ of fire…” Hana looks up from under brunette curls, clutching to her chest The Herodotus, her patient’s treasured history text turned scrapbook, where the firecracker packaging had been pasted in, “I love that, I believe that…”

Noting initials that had been scribbled repeatedly under his poem, she asks, “W.G. ... Who is W.G.?”

Count Hannibal Lecter’s scorched figure, brown and puckered and nearly hairless, any semblance of his once handsome face contorted by his skin’s desperate attempt to recover from the destruction of fire, is tucked between clean white linens and flanked by makeshift lace curtains to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun. He remembers. And trembles ever so. Taking in as much air as what remains of his functioning lung will allow, he sighs and then answers, “W.G. is for Will Graham.”

 

CAIRO, EGYPT - DECEMBER 1938

 

Christmas carols crackle through a loudspeaker, before bouncing off the courtyard walls of the Moorish palace that serves as the private residence of the British Ambassador. There is a party for the local troops, in an incongruous attempt to create a traditional Christmas in the dusty heat of Cairo. Lots of wives, including one Mrs. Molly Graham, help serve tea and cake to the rows of soldiers who sit at rudimentary tables with paper plates and colorful paper hats. Her husband, Mr. Will Graham, who after much lilted begging from said wives is now dressed as Santa Claus, finds himself giving out Penguin paperbacks and chocolate bars to soldiers and children alike, grumbling a ‘Happy Christmas’ each time and avoiding their appreciative glances.

Officers and civilians walk the shaded perimeter, with walls covered in geometric tiles of every hue. One of the civilians, just arrived, is Hannibal. He stays in the cool, and catches Will’s attention through a grated window. Will puts down his bag of goodies and walks toward him, as he glances around to see if anyone else has taken notice, particularly his wife. He gets to the grate where Hannibal leans, pulls down his fake beard, and takes in the other man’s appearance: pomade smoothed hair, freshly shaven, fine three-piece tan linen suit. It feels like ages since he’s seen him so groomed. It feels like ages since he’s seen him at all.

Hannibal thrusts a shiny firecracker wrapper through a square. “Say you’re sick.”

Will grabs at it nervously, ripping it in half when Hannibal playfully refuses to let go. “What? No!”

“How easy it would be, dear Will. Look at that lovely blush painted on you just now. Say you’re feeling faint - it’s the heat.” Hannibal’s gaze fixes on Will’s rosy cheeks. How ever could a person be so vernally beautiful while dressed as Old Saint Nick?

Will bristles, and blushes even more, “No.”

Hannibal’s gaze intensifies. “I can’t work. I can’t sleep.”

It’s been a week since they were last together, naked and angry in Hannibal’s hotel bathtub, recoiling in self-loathing for the gentle sins they had committed all afternoon. Will left dripping and half dressed, swearing never again to see the handsome Count as long as he lived. Hannibal himself was momentarily relieved to be free of him as he watched him go, his deep-seated fears of being possessed by anyone through the bonds of love running high. Such sentiments were short-lived though - for them both.

“Will!”

He looks back in the direction of his wife’s voice. Molly has wrangled up several more children for him to give gifts to. She waves and gestures towards them.

“Coming!” Then he looks back at Hannibal, at his lush mouth. He recalls the way those exquisite lips had felt against his - the way they had felt on him. A small smile works its way across his face. “I can’t sleep. I wake up shouting in the middle of the night. Molly thinks it’s the thing in the desert, the trauma.”

But little does poor Molly know what a wonderful event it had been, in fact. She knows nothing of what connections had been forged as they sat stranded in the Libyan desert, trapped just them two in the cabin of a wrecked Model A, a massive sandstorm wailing by and blocking out the stars and the night and the rest of the whole goddamned world... Yes, it is true they had been lucky just to have survived, but, it turns out they were even luckier in having had that time together where their private truths had been mutually bared.

Hannibal fishes a small pocket knife and a rutab from a handkerchief. Will watches as he deftly removes the pit and places the ripe fruit in his mouth. Hannibal laps at a drop of juice on his thumb which had strayed from the blade and says, “I can still taste you.”

Will’s eyes widen. Everything goes quiet for a moment. Then, he closes his eyes, relishing in the implications of Hannibal’s words. The subtle sucking sound of lips on thumb. A frisson sparks from the deepest part of him all the way up to the base of his skull. Impossibly, his hairs stand on end despite the arid heat and sweltering costume.

“I’m trying to write with your taste in my mouth.”

Will opens his eyes, and gives a little nod, and Hannibal knows he’ll come.

“Swoon - I’ll catch you,” he says as Will leaves.

Hannibal watches Will go to his wife and her band of children. He picks at another date and begins writing on the Christmas firecracker wrapper, smoothing it out - December twenty-second - Betrayals in war are childlike compared with our betrayals during peace…

Will, finally done with his task handing out gifts, suddenly sags at the knees and swoons. People rush to him, his wife closest.

“Are you alright, Will?!” Molly is more than jarred.

Will manages a fraudulent chuckle. “I’m fine. No, I’m fine…” He is helped to sit at the table bench. “How silly…”

Another soldier gives his two cents: “It’s the heat.”

Molly flashes a thankful smile to the others and says, “Thank you - he’s quite all right.” And then, quietly, to Will, “It’s not the fever again, is it?”

Will sees plain as day the residual guilt she feels from when he had contracted meningitis years before. She had dismissed his fevers as nothing, up until he began seizing on the floor, foaming at the mouth. Another time he was lucky to have survived. That remorseful concern leaks into him now, as he causes her distress for his own selfish, treacherous pleasure. But Hannibal’s pull is too strong. And he’s already caused a scene. He begins ripping his hat and beard off. “No, no. It’s just too bloody hot in this ridiculous suit. I think I had better go inside and sit down for a few minutes.”

“I’ll come with you,” Molly says.

“No, please. You stay. I shall be absolutely fine.”

He walks away before she can protest, and makes his way inside, where Hannibal deftly takes him by the elbow to a small storeroom. It is filled with lamps, vases, and cleaning equipment. Outside, the party is visible as opaque shadows through the bevelled glass of the ornate windows.

Gently backed against the shelves, Will Graham is freed of his blasted Santa suit, down to just his billowy white shirt and brown slacks. Hannibal takes in the scent and the flavor of Will’s sweat. Sees a rivulet of it run down his jaw and his neck to pool into the suprasternal notch at the base of his throat. How Hannibal loves that spot. The way it always peeks out of Will’s collar when the top has been left unbuttoned. He pauses in disrobing Will. Dips his index finger into the wet and spreads it around, before leaning down for a taste with the tip of his tongue.

Will watches the way Hannibal’s eyelids flutter as he savors him, and he shivers.

Next, Hannibal exposes a blessed shoulder, led there along the path of rigid beauty that is a clavicle from notch to curve. He lays baby kisses there and rubs his cheek against it, memorizing the softness of Will’s skin.

The notes of enlisted men singing carols begins leaking through. They look at each other, then begin to kiss, open-mouthed, hungrily, apologetically. Sung carols give way to a lone bagpipe moaning out Silent Night. Hannibal’s belt buckle gives way to Will’s scrambling hands.

Before long, the two men have each other in their determined grips, fighting hard not to moan out the absolute pleasure of it, biting on thumbs and shoulders to keep from screaming out when all is said and done, there in the hot darkness of the small space. Beyond all logic and social rules, Will wishes for nothing but it to be just them two like this, in the quiet dark, together and drowning in bliss.

Will watches Hannibal lick their mutual spent off his palm. God, how he hates to interrupt, but, “...I’d better go… Molly…”

Hannibal nods. He kisses Will again so that he can taste how good they are together. He knows he must have this again, and soon, at whatever the cost. Whoever, the cost...

 

***

 

Minutes later, Molly nearly crashes into Hannibal, disheveled and sweaty and looking oh so guilty despite all efforts.

“Have you seen Will?”

He avoids her eyes. “No, I haven’t. I’m sorry.” He walks away.

Molly continues scouring the warren of tiny rooms that run off the central courtyard. She finds Will sitting in one, smoking, surrounded by elaborate and oppressive tiling. She wonders briefly how Hannibal could have missed him.

“Are you feeling better?”

“I’m fine. Just hot.”

“Come on, let’s go home. Have a bath.”

Will sees her sweet, unassuming smile. He can’t stand what he’s doing to her. Leaning forward, he tosses his cigarette and clasps her hands in his. “Can’t we really go home? I can’t breathe. Aren’t you dying for green, anything green, or rain? It’s Christmas and it’s all - oh I don’t know - if you asked me I’d go home tomorrow. If you wanted.” He gives her knuckles a kiss.

“Will, you know we can’t go home. There might be a war.”

Will closes his eyes in despair.

Molly gives his brown locks a peppering of kisses, when her nose picks up the strangest scent. “What do you smell of?”

Horrified, Will backs away from her. “What?”

There is a tense moment before Molly speaks again...

“Dates! Somehow you’ve got date juice in your hair! No wonder you’re feeling homesick - must be missing Mrs. Miller’s Ma’amoul already.”

Not at all relieved for not being caught, Will looks out the grated window at just the right moment to catch Hannibal’s exiting figure. He rubs at his suprasternal notch, and closes the welling tears out of his eyes.


End file.
